


I wish we were all rose-colored, too

by niick



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Chaos Ensues, I mean it's his but Martin wears it, Jon and Martin mix up their laundry, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Wears a Skirt, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Kinda, Laundry, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Oneshot, jonmartin SPEEDRUN, little slip of belly under a short jumper... gay rights, not a slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niick/pseuds/niick
Summary: We all know, of course, that Jon has very bad luck. It was bad in college, assailing him with broken vases and spilled ink and awkward breakups, and it was still bad now.So, naturally, when Jon got back to his flat, the clothes in the hamper were not his.He stared in mounting horror at the bright jumpers and baggy jeans before him, just frozen in place with the unluckiness of it all, before realizing that this meant that Martin hadhisclothes too.Jon and Martin get their clothes mixed up. This goes about how you'd think.
Relationships: Background Sasha James/Tim Stoker - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 39
Kudos: 285





	I wish we were all rose-colored, too

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [ Rose Colored Boy](https://open.spotify.com/track/2RJfK2pOvGpnxC255YOy5k) by Paramore.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! It's not a slow burn because they are both gay idiots and I think we should respect that... However, I am also a gay idiot, and I am projecting my yearning to wear Boyfriend Sweater onto Jon.
> 
> I be like: *delicately overuses the "-" punctuation*

* * *

Jon slumped onto his bed with a drawn-out sigh, barely having enough energy to close the door to his flat behind him. His shoulders and back ached from shelving books all day, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. His bad leg was throbbing something fierce, adding to the buds of a headache blooming at Jon’s temples.

He lifted his face from his sheets with a grimace after breathing in the smell of week-old drool and dirt, and he decided, reluctantly, that today would have to be laundry day.

Laundry day in Jon’s flat meant that he had to dig into the haphazard stacks of laundry around him, all dress shirts and sleeveless sweaters in unsaturated shades of green and beige. Laundry day in Jon’s flat meant that he pulled an old band tee over his head and slipped into a pair of tattered sweatpants, begrudgingly gathering his clothes into their respectful hampers. Laundry day in Jon’s flat meant a trip to the bottom floor laundromat of the apartment building, a long trip down thirteen flights of stairs that he knew would make his leg throb something fierce.

So, this week, laundry day in Jon’s flat also meant grabbing his cane and sweeping his hair into a loose bun, rubbing dejectedly at his sore knee.

He was really a sight to behold, he thought to himself, in an old MCR shirt and with his greying hair that fell past his shoulders. The juxtaposition of teenager-like clothing and grandmother-like glasses and cane often led to double-takes and awkward conversations, which Jon hoped to avoid by taking the stairs.

But, as always, Jon was not so lucky.

When he arrived at the laundromat there was already someone there, bright and full of energy and the exact opposite of what Jon felt qualified to deal with at that moment.

The man looked up as he entered, and Jon thought that maybe he recognized him - ginger curls and freckled skin, bright red glasses and even brighter jumpers that he seemed to remember seeing in the building before - but of course Jon would know him if he was using the  _ apartment laundromat. _

“Hullo!” The man said, waving from where he was half-buried in a stack of jumpers nearly as vibrant in his smile. “Laundry day for you, too?”

Jon waved back self-consciously, trying his best to avoid eye-contact as he shoved his clothes into the washer with far more force than necessary. 

“My name is Martin,” the man continued, oblivious to Jon’s disinterest. “I’m new here, actually! Just moved in last weekend. It’s really nice to meet you!”

Jon realized with a jolt that the man - Martin - was expecting a response.

“Ah, um, Jon. My name is Jon,” he managed.

“Nice to meet you, Jon! Oh, I’ve already said that, um…” Martin flushed and turned back to his clothes, twisting his hands together in ill-disguised nerves. “What floor do you live on?” He continued awkwardly.

Jon sighed, keeping his eyes on the cycle of clothes in the machine in front of him.

“Floor thirteen,” Jon replied, voice flat.

Martin did not get the hint.

“Oh! I live on floor thirteen too!” He beamed at Jon, practically glowing in the dim fluorescents of the building. His smile fell slightly, and he glanced towards where Jon’s cane leaned against the machine. “Isn’t the walk difficult for you? With, um, your cane and all?”

“I manage,” he grumbled, eyes focusing on the countdown.  _ Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes. _

Martin was silent for a brief, blessed moment, before locking eyes with something at Jon’s feet.

“Hey!” Martin cried, and Jon’s headache immediately got worse. “We have the same laundry basket!”

“M _ hmm,”  _ Jon grumbled, again checking the clock on the washer.  _ Oh god - Ten minutes and then the dryer, how long is that? Another fifteen? _ He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Man, wouldn’t it be funny if we got them mixed up?” Martin continued, oblivious.

“Yeah,” Jon mumbled, no longer paying attention. He brushed a piece of lint off of his shirt and then pretended to be  _ very _ busy with adjusting his hair, hoping to god that Martin’s laundry was nearly finished.

Both of their washers buzzed at the exact same time, shaking Jon out of his intent distraction. He moved his clothes to the dryer as quick as possible, a steady stream of curses against his luck streaming through his head.

_ Okay. Fifteen minutes, and then you never have to see this man again in your life. _

Those fifteen minutes passed in awkward agony, with Martin asking him cheerful questions about his job, his life, his taste in tea and Jon responding with monosyllabic answers. Martin wasn’t even swayed by Jon’s disinterest and, after a few more minutes of mindless chatter, he learned that this was probably because Martin worked customer sevice.

The trilling  _ ding _ of the dryer was music to Jon’s ears, like the schoolbell on the last day before summer, like the thrilling zenith of a symphony, like a college acceptance letter arriving in your mailbox…

He practically leaped to the machine, ignoring the twinges the movement sent through his bad leg in favor of shoveling his clothes into his basket, still resolutely avoiding eye contact with Martin.

He was so focused, in fact, on ignoring Martin, that he spun around right into him.

Both hampers went flying - thankfully sealed so no clothes escaped - and Jon tumbled to the ground with a shock of pain. His cane clattered down next to him, another reminder of the horrible throbbing in his leg.

Martin, at least, had the grace to be embarrassed, already fluttering above him with concern knotted in his face. His skin was flushed a bright red and the stream of words leaving his mouth was nearly incomprehensible, though Jon caught at least five sorries.

“Oh my god, are you okay? I am so, so, sorry Jon, I wasn’t looking where I was going and-”

Jon came to his feet, ignoring the outstretched hand in favor of his cane. He grabbed the hamper nearest to him while simultaneously fixing Martin with a withering glare, and then spun on his heels to leave the room as fast as his leg would allow.

With all good luck, he would never be seeing Martin again.

* * *

We all know, of course, that Jon has no such luck. It was bad in college, assailing him with broken vases and spilled ink and awkward breakups, and it was still bad now.

So, naturally, when Jon got back to his flat, the clothes in the hamper were not his.

He stared in mounting horror at the bright jumpers and baggy jeans before him, feeling the blood drain slowly from his face. He hesitated there for who-knows-how-long, just frozen in place with the  _ unluckiness _ of it all - something he was far too used to at this point - before realizing that this meant that Martin had  _ his _ clothes too.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

No phone number, no flat number, absolutely no way to find him other than the knowledge that they lived on the same floor.

Jon was far too tired and sore to deal with this right now.

He decided that he would look through the clothes tomorrow before work, try to find something that at least remotely fit (he would  _ not _ be giving Tim the satisfaction of seeing him in a band tee) as well as some sort of identification or number that might’ve been left in with the clothes.

And with that, Jon collapsed into bed.

* * *

Martin was having a bit more trouble than Jon was. First, he embarrassed himself in front of the cute guy at the laundromat with all of his questions - this was something he was used to, this was something he could deal with. Second, he managed to  _ trip _ the cute guy at the laundromat which, honestly, looking at him sprawled out on the ground like that… no, it was horribly embarrassing too. But the final straw? God, the final straw? Martin  _ stole _ his  _ clothes. _

The clothes in the hamper in front of him were unsaturated and dull, the most exciting thing possibly being the odd graphic tee or an olive green sleeveless sweater. They were the polar opposite of Martin’s usual jumpers, all bright and comfy and hand-knit.

And what was even worse, they were  _ tiny. _ And Martin needed to be at the cafe in an hour, so he had to work something out.

The clothes he was wearing were a no-go, much too unprofessional for his job as a barista, so he resigned himself to desperately digging through Jon’s laundry looking for  _ something, anything, _ that would fit him.

It all smelled faintly of lemons, pleasant and bright and reminding him of Jon. He would be far more excited at the prospect of wearing the attractive man’s clothes if not for the steadily rising possibility that wearing them would incite indecent exposure.

And then finally, finally Martin extracted what seemed to be one of Jon’s sleepshirts, an oversized grey fleece sporting the blue and red Oxford logo that was actually slightly undersized on him but  _ good enough _ !

He pulled it over his head triumphantly, and then was faced with the issue of finding trousers that would fit him.

Ah.

From the laundry in front of him, it seemed that Jon’s wardrobe consisted of mainly work slacks and skinny jeans - which was fine, really! They suited him - which would never fit Martin.

He had almost given up completely when something black and plaited caught his eye at the bottom of the basket. He pulled it out tentatively, expecting the worst, and came eye-to-eye with…

Huh. A skirt.

A long, flowy librarian skirt that was gorgeous aside from the drab fabric, and that was just elastic enough to fit over Martin’s thighs.

Martin wasn’t usually the type to wear skirts - he thought they made his legs look weird - but something was better than nothing, right? And this one came all the way down to his ankles, so it wasn’t like you could see his legs anyway…

And then he imagined Jon in that same skirt, and he had to very quickly chase his thoughts away with a shower.

He somehow managed to get the rest of the way ready for work, combing his nearly unmanageable hair and washing his face as fast as he could before nearly sprinting out the door. His work was a pretty short walk away, but he was still nearly late and still reeling from the excitement of the clothes mix-up when he arrived at the door of the cafe.

The cafe was empty except for his boss, as it was still a few minutes until they officially opened for the day. Martin was, surprisingly, a morning person, and he loved the way London looked in the thin yellow light of sunrise.

Sasha spun as he entered, green apron swirling with the sharp movement. She had an empty coffee cup in her hands, which she promptly dropped as soon as she set eyes on his outfit.

Martin had honestly forgotten what he was wearing, so it was just as surprising to him when she vaulted over the counter and began to expect him from head to toe.

“What,” she hissed, “Are you wearing?” With two fingers, she pinched the edge of Martin’s skirt, scrutinizing it with a level glare.

“You look like a funeral threw up on you, Martin! What happened? Is this your late-onset emo phase?” She squinted at him, putting her face close to his shirt. “And you didn’t go to  _ Oxford!  _ Whose clothes are these?”

He pulled away, fiddling with his hands in embarrassment.

“Iranintoacuteguyatthelaundromatandaccidentallystolehisclothes,” he mumbled.

“You  _ what? _ Martin, Martin, Martin. Please repeat that for the people in the back, because I am really hoping you didn’t just say what I think you said.”

“I, um. I ran into a cute guy at the laundromat and I… I kinda accidentally sorta… stole his clothes.”

Sasha let out a loud bark of a laugh, slapping a tan hand against her thigh. “I’m sorry, Martin, but that is  _ the _ most on-brand thing you have done all week. That is  _ so _ funny.” She paused, taking in his slumped posture and twitching hands. “I’m assuming you can’t contact him or anything?” She asked, voice brimming with humor.

He flushed, staring intently at a point between his feet. “He… lives on the same floor as me!”

“That’s all?” she asked, giving him a knowing look.

“Yeah, I… no number,” he muttered, embarrassed.

She put a hand on her hip, fixing him with a trademark Look. “And… he has your clothes too?”

_ Oh. _

_He has my clothes._ _Jon. He has my clothes. He’s wearing my clothes-_

Sasha interrupted his thought spiral with another cackle. “Martin, he has your  _ clothes?  _ I’m sorry, but this is  _ so fucking funny _ -” She snorted at the look on his face, bending down to pick up the cup she had dropped.

“The skirt suits you, though, even  _ if _ you look like some sad goth.”

He finally raised his eyes, making her choke out another laugh at the embarrassment painting his features.

“Alright, Martin, come on. Get to work. We can find the guy later, okay?”

* * *

Jon was having a much worse swing of things. See, the bookstore didn’t have a dress code - not exactly - so there wasn’t a risk of offending it. So, realistically, he would’ve been fine coming in with any one of these vibrant and oversized jumpers that were, otherwise, fairly respectful.

However, he worked with Tim. And Tim took  _ any _ chance he could to suggest Jon had a ‘secret lover,’ be it himself or any other random passerby in the shop. And Jon knew, with utmost certainty, that wearing someone else’s clothes in front of him was a dead giveaway.

But what choice did he have, really?

He reopened the hamper with a deep sigh, rubbing the space between his eyes. All of Martin’s jumpers were either aggressively emblazoned with some sort of graphic or carefully home-knit, and Jon decided that the latter was probably the best, at least for his pride.

Jon resigned himself to the fact that, whatever he wore, it would be clear it didn’t belong to him (in that these clothes came in colors other than grey), and that he would surely attract Tim’s attention. However… it might be fun to wear something different for a change. He meant… if he  _ had _ to, he might as well embrace it, right?

His hands landed on a pleasant forest green jumper with intricate honeycomb cording, clearly done by Martin’s own hands. Jon thought about Martin’s soft, freckled hands spending hours and hours of work on this sweater and was almost  _ surprised _ \- he hadn’t thought at first glance that the man could be so dedicated, maybe he assumed wrong about him?

With another sigh he pulled it over his head, frowning as it fell nearly to his knees. Martin wore his sweaters oversized, which was  _ not _ great for Jon.

_ How can I work with this? _

He hummed to himself, walking to his closet to find  _ literally any pants _ that weren’t in his missing laundry basket. Martin’s were out of the picture - he was fine swimming in a jumper, but cuffing pants that many times would be a crime - so he just had to find whatever he had in the recesses of his closet.

Apparently he still had some dredges of luck left in the tank, because he finally found an old pair of black leggings from back when he was in tech theater. They made the sweater look like a dress but… that was better than nothing. Maybe Tim would think Jon was just lazy and wearing his pyjamas to work? He threw a jacket over the whole shebang and stepped back to look at the mirror.

_ Good enough. _

He pulled his hair into a loose braid, already running nearly on time for work (he usually arrived early, so  _ on time _ was not the best.)

It was a short tube ride to the bookshop but Jon felt hopelessly self conscious, and he kept rolling up the sleeves on the jumper anxiously. He knew he was leaving creases in it, but, if he wanted to use his hands, he really had no other choice.

It felt like days before he reached his stop, and he was the first one off and the first one speed walking down the sidewalk of downtown London. The bookshop he worked at was small and homey and he spotted it almost immediately.

_ Damn it. The lights are on. Tim’s already opened. _

Jon was  _ technically _ Tim’s boss, although there was an actual boss of the shop that neither had actually talked to and never showed up to check on them. This resulted only in the horrible nickname ‘bossman’ and absolutely zero subordinately respect, but Jon couldn’t stay mad at Tim. As far as he knew,  _ nobody _ could stay mad at Tim.

And, well, he was stalling.

He pushed open the door gingerly, cringing at the bright  _ ding _ of the bell. Tim was nowhere to be seen, but the annoyingly catchy notes of Brittney Spears were floating through the air, so he couldn’t be far.

“Hit me baby one more tiiime!”

...There he was.

Tim whirled around the corner, holding his book scanner as a microphone while belting the notes in a painful falsetto. His yellow apron was tied around his waist, and it swung along with his hips as he danced down the aisle.

His eyes caught Jon and, instead of being embarrassed like a normal person, he danced over, still swaying his hips with a horribly goofy look on his face. He stopped - just in time with the music - right in front of Jon and deliberately dragged his gaze all the way down his outfit, settling with a smirk on his jumper.

“Morning, Jon. I see you're… a bit late, aren’t you? Something keeping you  _ busy _ ?” Tim said, drawing out the last word with a wink.

“Good morning, Tim,” Jon said, breezing past him towards the register. He would ignore Tim for as long as humanly possible.

“I like your jumper!” Tim shouted, following him like an excited puppy. He joined Jon at the counter, leaning against it with that same, shit-eating grin. “Whose is it?”

“It’s… Urgh.” Jon sighed, slumping against the desk. “I got my clothes mixed up with someone at the laundromat. It isn’t what you think it is.”

Tim laughed, his eyes lighting up. “Are you kidding, bossman? That’s even  _ better _ ! That is, like, picture-perfect fanfiction plot right there. So, what, did you find her number amongst the clothes? Does she live in the same building as you?”

“....No number, but we live on the same floor,” Jon grumbled, admitting defeat.

“Hell yeah!” Tim cried, flinging a fist in the air. “So,” he said, looking Jon in the eyes, “Is she cute?”

Jon paused, then looked resolutely at his desk. “I… I suppose  _ someone _ might  _ perceive _ him as cute.”

Tim raised his eyebrows, his grin somehow widening even further. “So it’s a  _ he _ we’re talking about?”

Jon came to his feet with a huff, gesturing at the little rainbow pin on his bag.

Tim raised his hands in surrender, stepping back from the desk. “Hey! All I knew was that you dated some chick named Georgie, didn’t want to assume… Even  _ if _ you give off the twinkiest vibes I’ve ever seen-”

“Tim. Can we  _ please _ get to work?”

“But  _ boooosss _ ! You just practically admitted you have feelings! This is a big deal!” Tim whined, rubbing his hands against his apron.

Jon was saved from arguing, however, by a ring of the door as their first customer of the morning entered.

Tim sighed, making a  _ got-my-eyes-on-you _ gesture with two of his fingers. “You win this time, Jonny boy, but we are  _ going _ to talk about this later.”

* * *

**Direct Messaging with bosslady**

**tstonks:** sasha

**tstonks:** _saaaasha_

**bosslady:** tim what do u want

**bosslady:** i love u but u know im working >::(

**tstonks:** no this is important :0

**tstonks:** my boss is having a feeling

**bosslady:** oh wait rlly? jon??

**bosslady:** ok then dish ::0

**tstonks:** came into work in some other guy’s sweater ;)

**tstonks:** apparently there was a clothes mix-up

**tstonks:** like a fanfic lol

**bosslady:** actually? wait a minute

**bosslady:** same thing happened to my employee 

**bosslady:** does ur boss happen to dress like a funeral exploded on him,,

**tstonks:** yeah lol

**tstonks:** why??? :/

**bosslady:** today is he wearing some sort of bright jumper

**bosslady:** probably too big on him?????

**tstonks:** yes??? it’s massive

**bosslady:** oh my god

**bosslady:** _oh my god_

**tstonks:** babe if u know hot goss u legally have to tell me

**tstonks:** babe????

**bosslady:** that’s martin’s jumper ::::::0

**bosslady:** thats our. dumbass coworkers. being gay

**tstonks:** _ holy shit :000 _

**tstonks:** wait so how does ur tall employee look in jon’s stupid emo clothes

**bosslady:** he’s wearing a skirt

**bosslady:** and an oxford fleece but it is too short on him hehe

**bosslady:** its actually super cute :)

**bosslady: [marto-is-cute.png]**

**tstonks:** !!!!! might have to steal jon’s man on this one damn

**tstonks:** also,  _ jon owns a skirt??? _

**tstonks:** that is so choice

**tstonks:** anyway bossman is absolutely

**tstonks:** _swimming_ in that jumper ;D

**tstonks:** hes wearing it like a dress dfghjkx

**tstonks: [rat-twink-in-da-martinshirt.png]**

**bosslady:** oh my god

**bosslady:** are we gonna help them exchange back or

**tstonks:** hmm

**tstonks:** i mean we need them to meet again or smth

**tstonks:** we’re setting them up rite? ;;;;;;)

**bosslady:** ofc you gorgeous idiot ;)

**bosslady:** martin is so stupidly in love

**bosslady:** itd be a crime not to

**tstonks:** ok uh. how tho

**bosslady:** here wait

**bosslady:** im looking at martin’s employee sheet thingy

**bosslady:** his flat # is 1306

**tstonks:** oh hell yeah

**tstonks:** gtg bully jon then ;)

**tstonks:** thanks for using ur hacker skills for me babe

**tstonks:** ily <3 <3 <3

**bosslady:** it isnt hacking but ok

**tstonks is offline**

**bosslady** : ok bye?? ily2

**bosslady is offline**

* * *

“Martin’s flat number is thirteen-oh-six.”

Jon looked up from the books he had been shelving, meeting Tim’s eyes.

“Do I even want to know where you got that information?” He asked tiredly.

Tim leaned backwards against the bookshelf and waved a vague hand in the air. “My girlfriend works with Martin.” He paused, wiggling his eyebrows at Jon. “And I heard you own a  _ skirt _ ?”

Jon went red, fumbling the book in his hands. “Martin’s wearing my- He found my-” he sputtered, hands white-knuckleing the book. Jon took a deep breath, pulling himself together. “Er, yes. I  _ occasionally _ wear skirts. They’re comfortable,” he muttered, releasing his death grip on the novel and placing it on the shelf.

Tim gave him a knowing smirk and clicked his tongue. “Well, if you want your clothes back, Jonny boy, you’re going to have to go! get! your! man!” He cried in a singsong voice.

Jon sighed, turning back to his books if only to avoid looking at Tim.

“...You said it was... thirteen-oh-six?”

“Yep! And he looks  _ adorable _ . I’d show you a picture but-” he grinned at Jon, waving his phone in the air. “-that’d ruin the surprise.”

Jon slammed the last of the books onto the shelf, then turned to glare at Tim. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. But it’s  _ just _ to get my clothes back, nothing more.”

“If you  _ say so _ , bossman!” Tim chirped, turning back to continue shelving.

_ Damn it. _

_ The thought of Martin in one of Jon’s skirts, well, he really didn’t want to look too hard into how that made him feel. _

* * *

Martin was halfway into making himself a mug of tea when someone knocked on the door. He nearly dropped his mug in surprise - he hardly ever had visitors, and Sasha usually just let herself in - before placing it down and walking briskly to the door.

He opened it cautiously and nearly passed out right then and there.

The cute guy from the laundromat - Jon, wasn’t it? - stood right in front of him, hand half-raised to knock again. Martin noticed with mounting shock that Jon was wearing one of his jumpers, which would have been a surprise in its own right, and also that it was  _ massive _ on him. 

The feelings from earlier came rushing back as Martin stared down at Jon’s thin frame and skinny arms, all absolutely submerged in forest-green wool. The jumper came almost to his knees and at least three inches past the ends of his hands, and it was  _ so cute. _ The neckline was dangerously close to slipping off one of Jon’s shoulders, and Martin knew that, if that happened, he would pass out for real.

He shook away his thoughts and was met with nearly palpable silence, at which point he realized that he should  _ probably _ say something.

“Oh! Um, er, Hi! Jon! What are you, um, doing here? Well you’re probably here for your clothes I mean that’s pretty obvious I guess-” He began, twisting his hands together in front of him.

He stopped talking when he was met with continued silence, and looked back over to find Jon  _ staring at him. _

* * *

Martin looked…

Martin looked, well…

Martin looked stunning.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the neutrals of Jon’s clothing really brought out the green of his eyes, and that  _ skirt… _ It suited him so much better than Jon ever could have imagined. Jon knew he was staring but he couldn’t stop, his eyes tracing every soft curve of Martin’s body. He realized with a start how short his fleece was on Martin, and the tiny bit of stomach peeking out from the bottom made his head spin with… something he had never felt before.

Jon wasn’t good with feelings, he at least acknowledged that. Tim teased him for it, Georgie teased him for it, and he had lost many potential friends due to his blatant lack of empathy. So, when Jon suddenly became overwhelmed by  _ whatever _ this feeling was, his first urge was to suppress it. Lock it back where it came from, forget it ever happened.

Except… for the first time in his life, Jon wanted to… he wanted to…  _ he wanted to act on it. _ He wanted to stride forward right then and there and sweep Martin up into his arms, to press a million kisses on each and every one of his freckles, to card his fingers through all that ginger hair. He wanted to see Martin’s smile again, hear his laugh again, do their laundry together again.

He knew he was staring, he really did, but if he did what he  _ actually _ wanted to do, he was sure that Martin would shut the door in his face. In his desperation to break the silence, he blurted out the first thing on his mind.

“You look beautiful.”

He immediately covered his traitorous mouth with his hand, feeling his face go warm against his palm. He dragged his eyes away from Martin, fearing the look of disgust that he was sure to see on that freckled face.

“Sorry. I, er. I brought your hamper. Goodbye,” he said, staring desperately at a point at his feet as he shoved the hamper into Martin’s arms and spun on his heels to escape.

He was not expecting to have a warm hand wrap around his wrist, to have a soft hand pull him back, to hear Martin’s voice cry, “Wait!”

He finally let himself look up, and found that Martin’s expression mirrored his own. The man’s green eyes were blown wide and his face was flushed a lovely rose, making his dark freckles stand out that much more.

“Do you... want to come in?” Martin asked, voice small. “I, um, I’m making tea, if you wanted to talk.”

His mouth betrayed him yet again by turning upwards and, before he could stop himself, he was saying, “That would be lovely,” and following Martin into the flat.

It was exactly what Jon would’ve expected to see in something owned by Martin. The layout was the same as Jon’s, but that was the only similarity. The walls were painted a cheery periwinkle, and a multitude of colorful rugs dissected the dark hardwood floor. 

Whereas Jon’s flat was bleak and barely lived-in, organized to the point of uptight, Martin’s was homey and welcoming. Knicknacks coated every surface, from small cat statues to seashells to pretty rocks. Every lamp and vase had a doily, each crocheted out of colorful yarn and in a variety of different patterns.

House plants covered all the other empty surfaces, each thriving and green in hand-painted pots. The flat radiated pure  _ Martin, _ everything to the bumps and notches in the walls to the care put into the plants, Jon could practically feel Martin on every surface.

He didn’t ever want to leave.

Martin led him to the kitchen, where a kettle had just begun to whistle. He pulled down a well-loved box of Earl Grey from the top cabinet and then looked at Jon questioningly.

“Um… how do you take it?” Martin asked, rooting around for a mug.

“Oh!” Jon replied, eloquent as always. “I’m… not sure. I usually just drink whatever is easiest.”

Martin fixed him with a look of bemused horror, letting out a dramatic gasp.

“ _ Really? _ Jon, I trusted you!” He cried, laughing.

Ah, there it was - that lovely bubbling sound so brimming with warmth. Jon wanted to record it and press it into vinyl, to put it on repeat over and over. He smiled despite himself, sitting on a stool next to where Martin was busying himself with the kettle.

“I suppose I’ll have it whatever way you think best. You’re the expert after all,” Jon said.

He was looking at Martin from behind, but he could see his ears go red from behind his curls. Martin fumbled with the mugs, putting the tea bags in with a jolt.

“Oh! Um, okay then, thank you?” Martin sputtered, pouring the water with steadily reddening hands.

They sat in somewhat awkward silence as the tea brewed, neither meeting the other man’s eyes.

“So,” Martin began, once they both had a warm mug pressed into their hands. “You… um, think I’m beautiful?” He asked quietly.

Jon felt his face go hot so he focused on the swirling tea in his mug, watching the milk cloud up to the surface. His fingers tightened on the ceramic, and he shuffled in his seat.

“Er…” He considered, for a moment.  _ I think… yes, I think I might as well say it again. _ “Yes. You’re… you’re stunning, Martin. You wear those close better than I ever have.” He took a sip of his tea, meeting Martin’s eyes bashfully.

Martin somehow went even pinker, bringing up his mug to cover his face. Jon’s heart fell, for a moment, expecting the worst. He hardly heard Martin’s response at all, muffled as it was by the tea.

“I think… um, you look really nice too,” Martin mumbled.

Jon choked on his tea, spluttering into his mug. He looked up at Martin with wide eyes, already far out of his element.

“You… Do you mean it?” He asked, cautious.

“Of course I do!” Martin cried, eyes swimming with emotion. “ _ I want to see you in every jumper I own, Jon! _ ” It was Martin’s turn to cover his mouth, trying his best to hide in his mug.

Jon chuckled despite himself, relaxing into the stool. “I think you should wear skirts more often, Martin,” he said quietly, giving the man a fond smile.

“You… You aren’t mad?” Martin asked, finally looking up from his tea.

“Why would I be mad? The prettiest man in the world just offered to let me wear his jumpers, which, by the way, are the most comfortable things I’ve ever felt,” Jon said, finding his confidence.

Just like that the tension dissolved, Martin shooting Jon a look of exaggerated anger. “You better give me my clothes back, Jon!” He said, laughter painting his features.

Jon grinned at him, an honest smile for the first time in years, and set down his tea.

“Sure, but I’m keeping this jumper.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'll probably do some more quick oneshots like this in the future, as I have a list of a bunch of prompts that I have been waiting to try :)
> 
> Love you all!
> 
> Update: oops forgot to put this in! Here's the [ fanart](https://www.instagram.com/p/CB6RoZVlsIy/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) I did of Martin in Jon's clothes for this fic ;)


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